Comes Around Again ch 18 (Reply)

Gandalf looked up, eyes wide before the dark flame, the name of the Evil falling from numb lips. “Sauron.”

He screamed, then, and for a long time.

***

It was already pushing the late side of midmorning when Gimli looked out over the assembled crowd, but he still saw no sign of the Bowman. (Or of Legolas, for that matter. Where is that blasted elf? It did nothing to ease the gnawing pit of worry growing in his gut).

His father was helping the others load their boat, a supposed goodwill gift from the master, with the supplies gifted to them by the people of Laketown. All of the Company was helping load the boat, adding their dwarven sense of space to the lake-men’s sense of boat craft in an effort to fit fourteen in addition to their new gear, weapons, and supplies. Only Thorin stood separate, watching with an odd gleam in his eye. Gimli knew that, were they father from the mountain, Thorin would think nothing of helping them, would have insisted on taking his fair share of the load. That he stood apart now, put Gimli ill at ease. It was worse, still, that nobody seemed to notice.

“You do know we're one short,” Gimli heard, and looked to his side where Bilbo stood. “Where’s Bofur?” Gimli looked around, and sure enough, he could see hide nor hat of Bofur. Well, it looked like Gimli wasn’t the only one still using his eyes.

Nor was he the only one who could hear Bilbo.

“Last I saw, he was sleeping it off under a table,” Glóin said, laughing as if he hadn’t been as deeply in his cups the night before.

“If he's not here, we leave him behind,” Thorin said, as he walked past, his voice ringing with royal decree.

“Behind?!” Bilbo said, rearing back. “What’s the point of coming all this way just to leave him at the last?”

“We'll have to,” Thorin said, and Bilbo mouthed it back at him, incredulous. “If we're to find the door before nightfall, we can risk no more delays.” He strode forward, then, and held up his hand to Kíli’s chest, blocking his path to the boat. “Not you,” he said. “We must travel at speed.You will slow us down.”

“What.” Gimli said, flat, but nobody heard him. In fact, except for Fíli, the others in the boat seemed to be suddenly as deaf as his Uncle.

Kíli reared back as if slapped. “What are you talking about? I'm coming with you.”

“Not now,” Thorin said, and Kíli’s pale face darkened.

“I'm going to be there when that door is opened,” Kíli said with some force, but when he stood, he paled and turned pleading as the little strength he had was drained from. “When we first look upon the Halls of our Fathers, Thorin.

“Kíli,” Thorin said, and his voice was softer now, affectionate. If Gimli didn’t know better, he’d say it was honest and fully meant. But Gimli had heard enough liars spin their tales to know that it was an act, a simulacrum of care. He shivered. “Stay here. Rest. Join us when you're healed.”

Óin sighed and clambered from the boat. “I’ll stay with the lad. My duty lies with the wounded,” he said. As Chastisements go, it was genuine, but not very strong.

“Uncle,” Fíli said from his place on the boat. “We grew up on tales of the mountain. Tales you told us. You cannot take that away from him!”

“Fíli.” Thorin said, and Gimli recognized what he was seeing in Thorin; this was the benevolent tyrant, the King whose twisted words made punishment seems like reward. Was this the madness that took him, in the end? Already? But they hadn’t even made it to the mountain. What could possibly—

Gimli looked at Bilbo, at where his fingers were fiddling with his waistcoat pocket, and the ring within.

Fíli was not about to let his brother remain behind. “I will carry him if I must!”

But Thorin cut him off with a shake of his head, stepping forward as Fíli climbed from the boat and gripping him by the shoulders. “One day you will be king and you will understand. I cannot risk the fate of this quest for the sake of one Dwarf.” He sounded so reasonable, Gimli wanted to be sick. “Not even my own kin.” Fíli shot Thorin a disgusted look and pushed past him. “Fíli, don't be a fool! You belong with the Company.”

Barely even stopping to look over his shoulder, Fíli shot back, “I belong with my brother.”

Gimli stepped forward, standing in Fíli’s way for just long enough to make his cousin stop. The expression on his face was dark with hurt and anger, and Gimli hugged him close.

“Take care of your brother. His wound is worse than Uncle fears. I will keep an eye on Thorin.” He pulled back, and made Fíli meet his eyes. “At the first sign of dragon fire, make for shore.” Fíli blinked, and nodded sharply before going to his brother’s side.

“Gimli! Hurry up!” Thorn called, and Gimli trotted to the boat, ignoring the way Thorin seemed to be watching him. He settled in between Glóin and Dori, and closed his eyes against the rocking of the boat. Oh, would Legolas laugh to see him now.

Trumpets sounded, out of tune from long disuse, and the Master of Laketown processed up to a small pulpit. Gimli resisted the urge to spit, it it soured in his mouth; the man had revealed himself to be the worst sort of politician. Gimli never had time for such nonsense.

The Master raised up his hand to wait for silence. Once he had it, he spoke into a small horn. “Go now with our goodwill and good wishes.” Nori and Dwalin cast off, and Thorin stood at the prow of the boat, eyes never wavering from the Mountain looming in the distant fog. “And may your return bring good fortune—“

“Wait!” Cried a small voice, a distinctive accent. Bofur! Gimli looked around, but couldn’t see him in the crowd.

“Bofur!” Gimli said. “I hear Bofur! We have to wait!” There! In the crowd, people parting for something they couldn’t see, or someone shorter than the rest assembled.

“No stopping it now, lad,” Said Glóin. “He’ll be safe enough with the others.” Gimli turned to him, to deny, but found the words wouldn’t come. After all, Gimli knew what awaited them in the mountain, just as he knew the fate of Laketown. With everything that’s changed, what’s to say that Bofur wasn’t safer in town. Gimli sat back against the side of the boat.

“Good bye.” Called the Master of Laketown, waving with an affected gesture, and the boat carried them swiftly away down the and out of the village. Gimli met Bilbo’s eyes. Not a very auspicious start.

***

Fíli felt the urge to cause something real harm. Damn Thorin for being so pigheaded, and damn the rest of them for listening! Damn this quest! Damn the gold and the Dragon, and the whole bloody mountain while he was at it! None of them were worth his brother.

“Out of the way!” Called a familiar lilting voice. Bofur burst through to the dockside “No! No!” He stopped at the edge, hat in his hands, but it was too late. The boat was gone, and the crowd was dispersing. He looked forlorn, sad in a deep, real way that Fíli was surprised to see. Even at their worst, Bofur had managed to find a smile. Bofur looked up, saw them, and found that smile. It even looked like he meant it, though Fíli could see the strain at the edges. “Ha. So you missed the boat as well?” he asked.

Before Fíli could answer, Kíli gave a moan of pain and toppled over. “Kíli?” Fíli cried, catching him before he fell to the ground. Kíli didn’t answer. “Kíli!”

Óin bent over, probing at Kíli’s neck and checking him. Kíli didn’t so much as twitch. He was deathly pale, and his eyes were sunken bruises in his face, and when Óin pulled a lid back, all Fíli could see was white.

“He needs help, and fast,” Óin said. “A safe place where I can look him over properly.”

Fíli looked around, and caught sight of the tip of a longbow disappearing though the crowd. “I know where we can go.”

Bard looked surprised to see them at his door, and Fíli didn’t blame him. If Fíli had been so critical of Bard’s return to his Dragon-infested home, he would be surprised to see him as his door, as well. Still, he did not shut the door in their faces, merely paused in his surprise.

“Please!” Bofur said, “Kíli's sick. He's very sick.”

Kíli moaned, and Bard paled, though he kept steady. “I don’t know why you came to me,” Bard said. “And I will not readily turn away those in need, but I have three little ones. Is he catching?”

“Da?” Called a voice from inside. Fíli wasn’t very good about telling Mannish voices apart, but he thought this one sounded young. A girl. He looked behind Bard and saw two girls, a young one still clutching a rag-cloth doll and an older one who looked nearly grown to his eyes. There was a young boy as well, not yet grown into his whiskers. Fíli wished he was better at judging the age of men; how old were these children?

“It’s not that kind of sick,” Óin said. “He’s a dark wound, and it’s become infected. Your little ones will be quite safe.”

“I don’t wish to be rude,” Bard said as he held the door wider, ushering them inside. “My wife was often employed as a healer; it was that which ultimately took her from us.”

Fíli stopped, looking up at Bard, squarely. “We grieve with you,” he said, and he meant it. It was clear that Bard’s wife had meant much to him, and now that he knew they were there, the lines of grief were clear. Bard’s eyebrows lifted, but nodded back, accepting the sentiment.

“Sigrid,” Bard called to his older daughter, “love, get some water. Bain, help me clear off the table.”

“Yes, Da,” a young boy said and sprang to his feet. He was dressed in sweaters and knits too big for him, patched hand-me downs from his father. Fíli knew it all too well. That would be Bain, then. Sigrid, the young woman already taller than Fíli, grabbed an empty pot to fetch the water. Fíli helped Óin carry Kíli across the room, Bofur training nervously behind.

The second girl child (unless men also occasionally dressed their sons in skirts and braids until they’d reached a certain age), watched them with wide eyes. “Dwarves!” she said, and her voice was pipping high with youth. “Will they bring us luck?” She seemed hopeful at that, and Fíli turned to hide his wince. Lately, it seemed that the only luck his family brought was ill.

“What we can, little miss,” Bofur said, sweeping his hat off his head and bowing.

Kíli moaned again, and he opened his eyes at last, though was no longer seeing this world. He was sweating, though it was frightfully cold in the room, and his hair was limp against his brow. Carefully, Óin pulled back the bandage Kíli had tied around his thigh. Kíli did not so much as twitch, and Fíli’s worry grew and spiked when he saw the blackness seeping, creeping like vines of ore through rock.

“Can you not do something?” Fíli asked.

Óin closed his eyes, stepping back. “This is some dark poison,” he said. “And I’ve need of more medicine then I have. I need herbs. Something to bring down his fever.”

Bard ran to the table and the shelves hanging above it. “We have have some things,” he said, pulling jars and pouches down. “For fever and for pain. Nightshade. I have feverfew.”

But Óin shook his head. “It won’t be enough I fear.” He licked his lips. “Have you any athelas?”

Bard shook his head. “I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s what the elves call it,” Óin said, to Fíli’s surprise. Then again, he shouldn’t be surprised. Óin put his craft above all else, even blood feuds. “I’ve heard it called Kingsfoil as well.”

“Kingsfoil,” Bard said, stopping to think. “It’s a weed. We feed it to the pigs.”

Bofur frowned. “Pigs, weed,” he said, and snapped his fingers. “Pigs!” He pointed in Kíli’s face. “Don’t you go nowhere!” and ran out of the house.

***

Snow clouds hung low and grey in the sky, and they had been sailing though steady flurry for some time, out the other side of Long Lake and up the River Running. The water was cold, and fractured like volcanic obsidian, sharp and dark. Thorn stood still at the prow of the boat, more a statue of a noble king than the great Dwarf Gimli had come to know. Around him, what was left of the Company spoke in fevered whispers as they rowed about the treasure horde before them. If it weren’t for the fact of their faces, Gimli would believe himself among strangers.

“I hear the very walls are inlaid with gold, it is so plentiful.”

“A library, filled with the histories of our people, preserved in silver and crystal.”

Only Bilbo remained familiar, and he remained curled away from the rest, looking miserable wrapped in an oversized velvet tunic, the fur grey at the collar and wrists. He had a red coat, only slightly eaten by moths, wrapped around him and tucked over his toes. Someone had plopped a helmet on his head, and it was big enough to hide his eyes from view when he wanted it to. With the point skywards, he looked more like an onion than a hobbit, and a miserable one at that.

None of this was right! He was sure Fíli and Kíli were with them the first time. Thorn would not have left any behind!

(Gimli remembered seeing Laketown for the first time, little more than a charred pile of timbers in the summer-swollen lake. He remembered thinking he could still see it smoking in the distance, even though it was three years cold. How any could have escaped the dragon’s wrath…he would have to trust in Fíli.)

Gimli’s eyes narrowed. “You need not talk to me of faith, father. I do not turn when the road darkens.” Even when I should, Gimli thought, bitterly. With the Company sundered, did they have any chance at all? He looked away and saw Bilbo watching him with old eyes. Gimli held his gaze until Balin cried out;

“Land!”

They had arrived at the base of the Mountain.

They landed their boats on a low strip of rocky beach that was as grey and desolate as the sky above them. The sun was setting behind them, and the mountain glowed like an amethyst in the golden light, the snow sparkling down her flanks. The others jumped from the boat, heedless of the water they splashed up onto their boots. As night fell, they would be scraping away ice sure enough.

Bilbo hesitated at the edge of the boat, looking distrustfully at the water. It was no deeper than what he used when they bathed in the stream, but it was icy cold, and Gimli didn’t wonder that it gave him pause.

“Come, Bilbo,” Gimli said, and clambered from the boat. The water came to just above his ankles, but his boots, the much abused gifts of his cousin Dis, kept his toes dry in his socks. “Climb on my shoulders. I do not doubt the fortitude of hobbit feet, but no need to freeze your toes if your don’t have to, eh?”

Bilbo shot him a sardonic look, but accepted the hand Gimli offered. He was lighter than he had been at the beginning of their journey, and compared to the weight of the pack Gimli had worn on his own quest, Bilbo weighed next to nothing. His fingers clung to Gimli’s over tunic, and his heels dug into the tops of Gimli’s thighs, but it was no real chore to carry Bilbo over to a dry patch of beach. Gimli arched back and Bilbo stepped down.

“No problem,” Gimli said, and grinned. “Though you’re on your own with the snow.”

Bilbo snorted. “Thanks,” he said, dry. He looked up at the snow-covered mountain. “Maybe I should invest in a pair of dwarven boots, do you think? I fear Dwarvish winters are much harsher than the Shire winters I’m used to.”

There was an image: Bilbo tottering around in Thorin’s iron-shod boots. The Bilbo in his minds eye lifted a foot, nearly falling off balance, arms pinwheeling. He dropped the boot back down to the ground, and overbalanced forwards. “That would be a sight,” Gimli said. “A hobbit in boots.”

“It’s been known to happen,” Bilbo countered, half testy, and Gimli held out his hands for peace.

“We will camp here for the night,” Thorin said. “Glóin, Gimli, get the fire going.” He looked down at Bilbo, a queer light in his eye. Gimli narrowed his eyes. “We must keep our Burglar warm, after all.” Bilbo looked up to meet Thorin’s eye. Thorin nodded, and stalked off once more. Bilbo watched him go, his brow furrowed.

They camped there for a long, watchful night. Gimli spent most of it on watch, tending the fire. He missed his uncle, would would make him try to see things in the flames. He missed Fíli, would would have kept him company, and Kíli, who would try to convince them both to go to bed. He missed Bofur, who would have sung to him, or played his flute, to pass the cold hours. He fell asleep at some point, however, as he seemed to blink and the sun was visible at the horizon and the fire had burned down to embers.

There was just enough time to eat a quick, cold breakfast before Thorin was urging them on, up a winding path that would take them through the foothills. Gimli looked around as he did, noting the way the white snow gave the earth a clean quality it otherwise lacked. The land was covered, still, in fine soot and char. Desolation, indeed.

The path crested at a peak still a good day’s march from the mountain. The setting sun had turned most of the valley before them to night, and they were staining in the last patch of twilight.

Bilbo reached out a hand and and traced a pattern along what appeared to be a jagged piece of rock. “What is this place?” he asked.

Balin answered. “It was once the city of Dale,” he said, and walked over to stand by Bilbo. “The Mountain’s sides were green with woods and all the sheltered valley rich and pleasant in the days when the bells rang in the town.” He pointed ahead to the burned and snow-covered remains of what used to be a city. “Now it is a ruin. The desolation of Smaug.” Balin lower his hand. “Most who survived went on to live in Laketown. Before, it was simply a trading outpost, a place to stop and resupply or change lanes of travel.” Bilbo nodded, but his eyes were distant.

“The sun will soon reach midday.” Thorn said. “We must find the hidden door into the mountain before it sets. This way.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to speak of trusting Thorin with directions, but Gimli had to admit that Thorin hadn’t lead them down a single dead end since they had left Mirkwood. Was he remembering old stomping grounds? Had the travel of decades worn direction from his mind as, after all, what did it matter when you had nowhere to return to?

“Wait,” Bilbo said, shaking his head. “Is this the overlook? Gandalf said to meet him here. On no account were we to—“

“Do you see him?” Thorin demanded, interrupting Bilbo. “We have no time to wait upon the Wizard. We're on our own. Come!”

Bilbo grumbled and fell into step with Gimli. “I do not appreciate the way he barks orders,” Bilbo muttered. “I”m not a dog for him to call to heel.”

“It may simply be bad memories returning,” Gimli offered, and Bilbo met his eyes. Bilbo looked away first, not saying anything. What was there to say, after all.

***

“Anything?”

“Nothing!”

“If the map is true then the hidden door lies directly above us,” Thorin said, looking between the map and the rock face. Gimli searched with Bilbo. Today was Durin’s day, and they were running out of time.

(Of course, Gimli knew where the hidden stair was. Every member of the royal household knew, in case any disaster like Smaug ever happened again. But Thorin had been watching Gimli with increasing mistrust since they had left Laketown, and Gimli didn’t think that even his “true-dreaming” could explain his knowledge of the hidden door. So, he walked with Bilbo, and pretended to search, and hoped someone else would find it soon).

“Up here!” Bilbo called, and pointed. Gimli didn’t have to look to know he’d found the stair hidden within the tunic of Thror, and he breathed a quick sigh of relief.

If it all happens like it did before, they were less than a week away from battle. It made his heart heavy to wish for the day to come sooner, but only then would he be able to be himself once more.

“You have keen eyes, Master Baggins,” Thorin said, with genuine warmth. He shoved the map back into his tunic, and lead the way as they climbed up the stair.

It was rough going. Not every step was easy to get to, and Bombur especially struggled with the distance, for all that he was surprisingly nimble for his size.

The stair led to a small platform just behind the ear of Thror. “This must be it,” Thorin said, reverent. “The hidden door. Let all those who doubted us rue this day!” He clenched his fist, looking for the instant like the same dwarf who had roused their spirits in Bag End, and even Gimli had to cheer. His mirth was short lived, however, as the old light in Thorin’s eyes faded back to that ill gleam.

“Right, then.” Balin said. “We have a key. Which means that somewhere there is a key-hole.”

Gimli looked side-eyed at Balin. Apparently, Fíli had inherited his occasional declaration of the obvious. No one else seemed to notice, however, as Thorin pulled the key from around his neck, still attached to the leather thong on which it hung.

"The last light of Durin's Day will shine upon the key-hole,” he said, with the cadence of an incantation. Then, with the authority of a foreman, “Nori. We're losing the light.”

Nori sprung forward, then, his thievers’s ear pressed against the stone as he tapped, looking for the hollow sound that would indicate a doorway. Gimli shook his head. It wouldn’t work; Dwarf doors were invisible when closed, and not even Gandalf could force them open.

Gandalf. Gimli looked out over the distance, towards the southern tip of Mirkwood. Gandalf had told him, in the days after Pelinor, when Frodo and Sam were recovering in the houses of the healing, what had befallen him when he had left Thorin’s company. Gimli wondered if the knowledge that he would be facing not a mortal man but Sauron himself would change the outcome of that battle. Gimli feared it would, and the lack of the Wizard on the outlook sat ill in his gut.

Dwalin had taken to kicking the rock, as if he could burst through on the strength of his fury. If it would be anyone, it would be Dwalin, but Gimli knew it was hopeless. “Come on” Dwalin growled.

“Be quiet!” Nori snapped. “I can't hear when you're thumping.”

Gimli cross his arms over his chest. “You need to wait for the light,” he said, but it was no use. They weren’t listening to him. “It will come, if you wait.”

“It's no good.” Balin cried out. “The door's sealed. Can't be opened by force.” Now they stood back, stooped in defeat. “There's a powerful magic on it.” He sighed. “Perhaps it’s for the best,” he said, then added, dryly, “The halls must be filled with that beast’s foul reek.”

“No!” Thorn cried. “‘The last light of Durin's Day will shine upon the key-hole.’ That is what it says.” He looked about him, wildly. “What did we miss? Balin?”

“We've lost the light,” Balin said, his voice and head heavy. “There's no more to be done. We had but one chance. Come away, lads.” His voice was gentle as he ushered them back to the stair.

"It's over," Glóin said. Gimli frowned at him.

"So you're just giving up," he demanded, as Bilbo shook his head:

"Wait a minute--"

"We're too late," Thorin said with an air of finality, and let the key slip from his hands. It fell with a clatter to the mossy rock beneath their feet.

Glóin sighed, and put his hand on Gimli's shoulder. "We're too late, son," he said,a dn Gimli had to stare at him. "Sometimes, it happens. Not every quest will be a success, and Mahal knows this family has seen their fair share of that truth." Gimli shook his head. No, he could not believe that.

Behind them, Bilbo was demands for answers fell on deaf ears. Thorin turned away, and the others made their way back to the stair.

"Where are you going?" Bilbo asked, in confuddlement. He turned to Gimli. "They listen to you! Make them listen!" Without waiting, Bilbo turned back to Thorin, pleading to his back. "You can't give up now! Thorin. You can't give up now."

"Come along, Bilbo," Balin said. "There's nothing to be done."

"No!" Bilbo cried. "No, and no again! I have not come this far, dragged from my comfortable little hole, though goblin infested mountains and spider-filled woods, pulled you lot from the Elvenking's dungeon and damn near frozen my toes off, just to stop here!"

Gimli felt his eyebrows rise; he'd never heard Bilbo use such language, nor be so visibly angry. His face was red, wind-chapped and flushed angry, and he practically quivered--though he could have been shivering. It was quite cold on their ledge, and Bilbo was standing in a pile of snow.

"Now,” Bilbo said, crossing his arms. There was the hobbit who had faced down goblins and spiders, who had brought them all from the Elvenking. “There is a way into this mountain, and I, for one, refuse to move until we have figured it out! Who stays with me?"

"I will," Gimli said, and pulled away from his father to stand next to Bilbo. He pulled off his cloak and draped it around the Hobbit's shoulders. Bilbo patted his hand, gratefully, and when Gimli looked up, he saw Thorin's stare boring into him.

"We all will," Thorin said. "Once more you have proven to be the best of us, Bilbo. You are right. It is foolish to despair so quickly. Start a fire," Thorin said. "And keep it lit!" He stepped over, took the cloak from Bilbo, who squawked with protest, and tossed it at Gimli. Gimli caught it, just in time for Thorin to replace the cloak with his own. Bilbo watched him, thin lipped and wide-eyed, and Thorin never looked away from his face.

***

Legolas stopped at the outer edge of Laketown, settling in to lay against an outcropping of rock for shelter; there was something off, something out of place. Tauriel stopped next to him, lowering herself into a crouch.

“What is it?” she asked, quietly breathless.

”Yrch,” Legolas sneered. There were orcs in Laketown, the same odd breed they had chased at the river, meaning it wasn’t an isolated attack. Someone wanted Thorin’s company dead, and they were hunting. “Quickly,” he said, and vaulted himself off the rock to the path below, springing off on nimble feet.

They lucked upon the little dock, no more than a peg and a shallow boat. It would have been difficult for a full grown man to use, let alone two, but neither Legolas nor Tauriel were Men, and it was a simple enough matter to guide it silently across the icy waters.

It was full on night, now, and the town was as quiet as the water. Tauriel steered them through the pathways and around pillars, under bridges and walkways, while Legolas searched the rooftops.

There—the roof of a small house on stilts, three orcs sat crouched. As Legolas watched, they dropped down through the windows, and the screams from inside woke the night. Lights were lit in the surrounded houses, and Legolas saw the shapes of more orcs crouching back into the darkness.

“Tauriel!” he cried, already springing from the boat to the platform.

“I saw,” she called back, short on his heels, and they raced off to the fight.

Precious moments it took to get to the house, to climb the stairs, but that was all it took. Legolas wrenched open the door, and with one swift moment, cut the head from the orc that stood in the doorway. He stepped over the fallen body into the home.

Bard’s children (for they were Bard’s children. He remembered them from they days after Five Armies, when the new King of Men and King Dain met in negotiation after negotiation with his father), were around the table, facing off with an Orc with a wicked and crooked blade. Little Tilda was under the table, smashing at its feet with a pot, and Sigrid was throwing the crockery. Little Bain (Bain the Just, they would call him), had a sword far too big for him, and too heavy to boot. Still, he held his own.

Legolas shot the orc in the back of his head with an arrow, pulling it free before it fell, and fired again at an orc just coming through the broken window. The children whirled to greet this new threat, and he saw their faces blank with shock when they saw him.

Tauriel had flanked him through the door, and was engaged with the orcs that were attacking Kíli where he lay on a table, barely sensate. Fill and Óin were holding them off, throwing the furniture and charging straight for the enemy, willing to use brute force if it was all they had. Tuareg swept in, her knives dancing, and between her blades and the young Prince Fíli’s dedicated use of a table bench, the Orc that was coming for Kíli perished.

Prince Kíli had either fallen, or been thrown from the table in the scuffle, and he struggled to stand and fight, knowing through his fevered delirium that his brother was in danger, but in no way able to fight the real threat.

More orcs appeared at the windows, and the next few minutes were filled with blades and blood.

Then, in the doorway appeared an Orc so big that, for a moment, Legolas thought he was fighting an Uruk Hai, and barked something in their harsh language that was, apparently, a retreat. The Orcs, those left living, fled in an instant, and Legolas was about to give chase. He turned to call Gimli to him, to rejoin, once more, two of the three hunters, and saw, instead, Prince Fíli, watching him with guarded eyes.

Legolas blinked. They were not Uruk Hai, not yet. Saruman, if he had yet fallen, had not yet turned his mind to his own army.

“Bolg,” he said, aloud. “That was Bolg.” He saw Fíli’s eyes widen; he knew the name then.

He called out to Tauriel. “Stay with them!” and ran out the door to give chase. Why was Bolg in Laketown? What did he want?